


Bond

by MaryPSue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Gen, Grunkle Ford's Portal Adventures, Symbiotic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: He steps up to the vat again, reaching out to press a six-fingered hand against the glass. The worm-creature’s fronds flick towards him again, and again, his brain is bathed in that feeling of - warmth. Trust. “What is…he?”“A Solovmachian. They’re symbiotic lifeforms that feed on brainwaves.” Jheselbraum clasps her hands in front of her, watching him carefully. “They need a host to be able to live outside of this kind of suspension. But as a result of how they process their diet, most compatible hosts become very strongly psychic.”He presses his other hand against the glass as well. “And you think I should become his…host.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be a collection of roughly chronological short ficlets focused on this AU where, while on the other side of the portal, Ford willingly bonds with a symbiotic alien entity in order to get Super Hopped-Up Psychic Powers and keep Bill out of his head. I'm going to try to stick to the occasional short ficlet, as I'm still focusing on finishing my WIPs, but this AU hit me like a freight train and got much more response than I expected, so I'm going to keep writing in it. Please do not be disappointed if it doesn't grow a plot. Please also do not be disappointed if it _does_ grow a plot. (I know myself too well.)
> 
> Tags will be updated as more ficlets are added.

At first, Ford doesn’t recognise the room he wakes up in. 

He flares his fronds, testing the space around him without having to get out of the very soft and comfortable bed he’s found himself in, but there’s nothing but the low-level chatter of small minds. Insects, or maybe rodents, busy in the walls and the corners. No other sapient thoughts. He’s alone.

Wait. Fronds? He doesn’t have - 

A throb of pain pulses through Ford’s head, starting at the base of his skull, and his memories fracture. He remembers the oracle, Jheselbraum, remembers her taking him in.

He remembers the vat.

…

_“You - you can really make it so that Bill can’t access my mind anymore?”_

_The seven-eyed oracle smiles, enigmatically. “_ I _can’t. But I can introduce you to someone who can.”_

_He follows her down a twisting corridor, out into a smaller chamber that contains a large, soft, comfortable-looking bed, a desk covered in weird detritus that makes his heart clench with nostalgia, and, stretching from the floor almost to the ceiling, a clear glass vat._

_Inside the vat, suspended, floats a pale, pink, eyeless, wormlike thing. It’s about as long as his torso and as thick around as his wrist. Its long, segmented tail is lined on either side with evenly-spaced spines, and at the very top of its tail, protruding from the rough oblong of featureless flesh that might, in another creature, have been a head, is a vicious-looking spike nearly three inches long. On either side of the oblong, three pale pink fronds wave gently in whatever viscous liquid the creature hangs suspended in._

_As he steps up to the vat, the fronds flick towards him._

_There’s a new mind in front of him, whirling, tangled, practically spitting sparks. The tenor of it tastes a little like the last mind he bonded with. Perhaps younger, less experienced, but simmering with the same determination and boiling with intellect. They will make a good match, and he projects as much in the mind’s direction._

_He steps back, reeling. “Did that thing just -”_

_Jheselbraum is beaming. “Oh, good! If he reached out to you, that’s an excellent sign.”_

_He steps up to the vat again, reaching out to press a six-fingered hand against the glass. The worm-creature’s fronds flick towards him again, and again, his brain is bathed in that feeling of - warmth. Trust. “What is…he?”_

_“A Solovmachian. They’re symbiotic lifeforms that feed on brainwaves.” Jheselbraum clasps her hands in front of her, watching him carefully. “They need a host to be able to live outside of this kind of suspension. But as a result of how they process their diet, most compatible hosts become very strongly psychic.”  
_

_He presses his other hand against the glass as well. “And you think I should become his…host.”_

_“The psychic abilities you’d gain would be enough to keep Bill at bay. And this Solovmachian was previously bonded to a freedom fighter who dedicated his life to destroying Bill Cipher. The knowledge you could share -”  
_

_He doesn’t wait for the oracle to finish speaking. “I’ll do it.”_

…

Ford pushes himself up to sit on the bed, running a hand through his hair. There’s a dull ache running all the way up his spine, and a muffled throb at the base of his skull, but he feels well-rested and -fed in a way he hasn’t in - years. Probably since before he fell through the portal. He owes Jheselbraum a debt of gratitude.

He gives his fronds another, experimental flick, scanning the room around him one more time even though he can see now that there’s no one else there. It’s strange, mostly because it _isn’t_  strange - he has six brand new, inhuman appendages, attached to an equally brand new sixth sense, and yet, they feel as easy and natural to use as the fingers on his hands. He couldn’t begin to explain to anyone else how they work. They simply _do_.

Ford pushes himself to his feet, and then has to sit back down again immediately, head spinning. His balance is shot, and he hopes it’s not permanent. His head feels muffled, fuzzy, as though the inside of his skull has been lined in felt. Even remembering how quickly the bond had resolved and the host body had recovered its equilibrium last time isn’t particularly reassuring when the room won’t stop whirling around him.

“Shared memories,” Ford says, aloud, and tries not to be startled at the sound of his own voice. “Right.”

He shuts his eyes and rests his head in his hands until the spinning slows.

…

_He’s lying facedown on something like a narrow, padded table, naked from the waist up, his face pressed into the cushioned ring affixed to one end of the table and his arms dangling over the sides. Trying to breathe normally. Trying not to think too hard about what he’s about to do._

_“Just hold still,” Jheselbraum says, from somewhere behind him. “And try to relax. It’ll hurt less.”  
_

_He takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly, relaxing his shoulders. A wave of calm washes over him, and he recognises it as the same kind of feeling the - symbiote - had projected at him earlier. He tries to relax, to let it calm him, but the knot of dread at the pit of his stomach still winds and unwinds._

_In that warm, reassuring voice, Jheselbraum says, “Now, this might pinch a bit,” and he shuts his eyes._

_The symbiote is cold as Jheselbraum drapes it along his spine, cold and a little slick with whatever the vat had been filled with. He can’t help the shiver, or the ones that follow as the symbiote’s spines skitter over his bare back, sliding its wormlike body upwards towards his skull. Seeking a place to - attach._

_Another wave of calm, of reassurance, bathes his brain, and he settles into it, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing. There’s a sharp pinch at the small of his back, which quickly resolves into an ache, and he struggles to keep breathing deeply and evenly. Not to think about the thing’s spines sinking into his flesh, digging into his vertebrae, working themselves into the delicate and irreplaceable bundle of nerves that controls all of his motor functions -_

_There’s another pinch, and another ache, a little higher up his spine, and then another, a little higher yet. He tries to keep focused on his breathing, not to worry about whether the numbness crawling up his back is a sign that he’s going to be paralysed. Not to think about the three-inch spike lying, waiting, pressed against the nape of his neck. It’s too late to turn back now._

_He barely feels the pinch between his shoulders, the ones that climb his neck, as anything other than pressure. The feeling of calm is all around him, now, an ocean of stillness and easy tranquility in which he finds himself drifting. Any pain he might have felt, any fear, seems insignificant next to its immensity. He wonders, briefly, if Jheselbraum has drugged him somehow._

_He’s expecting a sudden, sharp stab to the base of his skull. And there is one, only…not nearly as hard or as swift or as painful as he’d expected. Instead, there’s a quick piercing pain like a needle sinking into skin, and then that dull aching pressure that must be the spike working its way into his brain, into the one thing he has left, into the very heart of what makes him who he is…_

_For just an instant, he’s seized by an abrupt, frantic terror of what’s happening to him, of what he’s stupidly chosen to do, to_ trust _, has he learned nothing, when this turns out to be another trick he will never be able to escape, this is the end -_

_And then the symbiote’s fleshy body settles flush against the back of his neck, and the final two spines slip neatly under his skin, anchoring themselves in the vertebra at the base of his skull._

_He opens his eyes._

_He can see, again. Can hear and smell and taste and Jheselbraum’s worry is fading into excitement and the world is loud and bright and overwhelming after so long in the dark and the silence of the vat and the walls around him are alight somehow with dull sparks of consciousness and he’s not dead even though he remembers dying remembers the last host dying under him remembers -_

_It’s somewhere about here that his poor, abused mind, trying to protect itself from the deluge of information flooding it, shuts down._

…

When Ford opens his eyes again, the first thing they land on is a glass of water sitting on the cluttered desk across the room. He braves the few steps over to the desk, leans heavily against it as he grabs the glass. There are two purple pills sitting beside the glass, as well, and he swallows them both, chasing them with a long gulp of water. The throbbing at the base of his skull eases, just slightly. 

There’s nothing like a mirror in the room, but the glass wall and dim liquid of the now-empty vat gives it a passably reflective surface. Ford’s image is distorted by the curvature of the glass, of course, but he can make out his own face. On either side of it, three pale pink fronds flare, a little like the frills on each side of an axolotl’s head. The highest two are just about level with the base of his skull, peeking out from behind his ears; the lowest about level with his chin. 

Ford raises a hand, gingerly reaches up to touch one and immediately snatches his hand away. Apparently they’re still very sensitive to touch. Thankfully, that should fade before long.

He turns his head, watching parts of his face balloon and shrink in the funhouse mirror of the vat’s glass wall. His new appendages are still attached to the oblong lump of flesh that served the symbiote as a head, anchored at the back of his neck. The symbiote’s body is still visible, stretching down along his spine and disappearing into the light robe that Jheselbraum must have given him. The skin around where each of its spines went in looks puckered, like it’s already starting to heal.

The sight of something latched onto his spine like this should, Ford knows, be strange, horrifying, viscerally upsetting. Somehow it isn’t. 

No wonder it still aches, though.

He knows Jheselbraum’s coming before she reaches the door, hurries over and pulls it open for her before she can knock. She beams, and crosses the room to the desk. Ford follows, pushes aside a jar of what look like human ears and a sheaf of notes to clear a space for her to set down the tray she’s carrying. Whatever’s on it smells amazing, and suddenly Ford feels like he hasn’t eaten for a month. 

“You’re up and on your feet,” Jheselbraum says, impressed, and Ford knows she hadn’t expected him to be walking around for another day or two at least. “The bonding’s going well, then?”

“I’m still a little dizzy,” Ford admits.

“That’s only to be expected,” Jheselbraum reassures him, with an understanding smile. “Come, sit down and have something to eat. When you’re finished, I need to talk with you about Bill Cipher.”


	2. Chapter 2

The portal swirls away into nothingness, taking the last of the blue light with it, and the basement lab goes dark.

Stanley stands frozen in place where he'd stopped when Ford had unwound his scarf, torn somewhere between fear and despair. He keeps oscillating between a desire to throw himself between Ford and the awestruck and confused children in the corner, and the vague hope that Ford - or the thing he thinks is impersonating Ford - hasn't noticed them yet. The cycle is only broken by a flash of worry about the - 

Ford pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, unable to believe what he's hearing from Stan.  _"_ Government agents, Stanley? It's not bad enough that you restarted the portal, you had to end up on the government's radar while doing it?"

Stan snaps back, automatically defensive. "Hey, I'm not the super-genius who decided to build the stupid portal in the first...place..." His anger tips to confusion, and he eyes the fronds flared on either side of Ford's head suspiciously. "...Ford?"

" _Yes_ , it's me," Ford says, but before he can explain any further, the girl - Mabel, without a hint of fear in her, what a curious and remarkable child - is interrupting. 

"Whoa, what? Stan _ley_? Grunkle Stan, what -"

"You took my name," Ford says, before Stan can decide how he wants to put the thought into words. "Oh, and my house. And you turned it into a _what_?"

"Tourist trap," Stan mutters, crossing his arms and looking away from Ford's face, deliberately avoiding eye contact. As if Ford can’t see perfectly clearly at the very surface of his thoughts just what kind of a farce he’s made of Ford’s home and research. And he has the audacity to be - _proud_  of this - this mockery of a museum he’s created!

“What on earth possessed you -” Ford cuts his own sentence short, waving a hand as though he can brush the sense of - of _violation_  away like something tangible. “Never mind. It can wait. We need to deal with the government first.”

He starts across the room towards the elevator - or where the elevator should be, if Stanley hasn’t ruined that too - but once more, Mabel interrupts.

“Okay, nobody’s going anywhere until somebody tells us what the heck is going on! Grunkle Stan, why is your brother-guy saying this is his house? And -”

Ford sighs, and presses a hand to his temple. He has to unwind his scarf a little further to give his fronds room to move, to be able to match the patterns of Mabel's brainwaves. She’s truly a remarkable child, he’s never encountered a wavelength quite like hers. 

Once he’s synchronized brainwaves with Mabel, though, it only takes a thought to dump the whole sordid story directly into her mind.

Mabel’s eyes go glassy, and then her knees collapse under her. Her twin catches her before she hits the concrete floor, torn between concern for his now-unconscious sister and fury at Ford. “Mabel! What’d you do to her?”

“I may have overestimated her mental capacity,” Ford admits, and the glare Dipper fixes on him is pure poison, any trace of hero worship boiling away almost instantly. “Not like _that_. I attempted a psychic transference and overloaded her brain. She’ll be fine once she’s had some time to process.”

“You did _what_ ,” Stanley growls.

“I transferred my knowledge of our history directly to her mind,” Ford says. “We don’t have time to sit around down here telling stories for thirty minutes with half the US government breathing down our necks.” He pauses, considering. “It is still the US government, correct? We haven’t been absorbed by the Soviets?”

Stan’s got more than a few choice words for Ford, words Ford is fairly sure you’re not supposed to use in front of children in this dimension, but he bites them back. Ford has to admit he’s astonished Stan even has the maturity to do that. 

“Yeah, we got a lot of catching up to do,” Stan says, with his mouth, anyway. “But I guess we probably should do something about the jerks trampling all over my lawn first.”

Ford doesn’t snap, “ _Your_  lawn?” It takes a surprising amount of self-control.

“I’ll handle it,” he says, bushing past Stan as he strides towards the elevator.

...

The lawn is, as Stan had said, swarming with black-clad government agents. They’ve set up a perimeter outside, and have apparently secured each room in the house. The two stationed in what had been Ford’s office-cum-laboratory, but now appears to be some kind of gift shop, start when Ford steps out from behind the basement door, but Ford adjusts their expectations with a wave of his fronds and a thought. They go back to their patrol, satisfied that nothing is out of the ordinary.

Ford walks out of the gift shop and down the stairs onto the lawn, broadcasting authority and _rightness_  until anyone who might have questioned his presence is completely convinced that he’s meant to be there, that there’s nothing strange about him, that challenging him would be above their pay grade. It’s a handy little trick that he’s relied on time and time again during his travels. Of course, it’s easier when the crowd isn’t actively pursuing a hostile fugitive with his face, but still.

The man the others are looking to as the person in charge is deep in a discussion with what appears to be his number two (and possibly his boyfriend?) when Ford walks up. He glances up, and Ford shifts his focus from keeping the crowd’s expectations under control to a full-scale assault on this man’s memories. He tears through them like he’s upending a metaphorical trunk onto an equally metaphorical floor and sifting through the contents, unraveling each strand of logical connection and certainty he finds and obliterating any information too damning. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, and the man in charge of the government agents blinks in confusion. “What authority do you have to search and seize my client’s property? And hold him against his will?” He prods at the memory of Stan in custody, like a sore tooth, and the government agent winces, almost imperceptibly. “You never even formally arrested my client, and I can see why. Your evidence is circumstantial at the _very_  best, and your primary grounds for suspicion are - oh, I don’t believe this. An entirely unrelated incident, which you clearly must have hallucinated, because everyone knows _zombies_  are fictional.”

The man, utterly blindsided by Ford’s psychic assault, blinks several times and presses a hand to his forehead, looking down at his shiny black shoes to break eye contact. “There was...a doomsday device...?”

“Oh, really. Did you _find_  it during your unlawful search and seizure of my client’s property?” Ford crosses his arms over his chest, tapping one foot against the gravel. “You should be grateful my client is giving you an opportunity to clear off of his property. If it were up to me, this suit would already be before the courts.”

The man Ford’s speaking to seems properly bamboozled, but his partner peers suspiciously at Ford. He starts to speak, and Ford shifts his attentions, giving the second agent’s memories the same thorough scouring as the first. The man shuts his mouth, confused and chastened. He offers no resistance when Ford takes the device he’s holding - a tablet computer, fascinating - and swipes through its contents, until he’s satisfied that it holds nothing truly incriminating.

Both of the agents are blinking, now, trying to repair the mental connections Ford had broken. Ford gives the whole yard another blast of authority, just for good measure. He’d better get them all out of here, give them something else to focus on to mitigate the risk of their reforming those connections. “Well? What are you waiting for, a kiss on the cheek?”

Both agents give themselves a short shake, like they’ve just woken from a nightmare. The one Ford had first spoken to recovers first, giving his enormous walrus moustache a nervous stroke. “Uh - yes,” he says, uncertain about everything except that he absolutely, one hundred per cent does not want to be sued. “Right! Men, pack up. We’re moving out,” he shouts, the command carrying over the lawn. Ford steamrolls the few inklings of resistance from the lower-ranking agents, and the swarm of black-clad government guys begin to tear down the perimeter and pack their gear back up.

The man Ford had first spoken to, the one in charge, nods once at the sight before turning back to Ford. “Please pass on our...apologies...to your client,” he says, and even though he means it more to cover his own ass than because he actually feels any regret, at least Ford’s story has convinced him. He’s picked up the narrative Ford had fed him - that Stan has been wrongly accused, and they’ve botched the arrest - which means there’s a much, much smaller likelihood of his brain reconstructing the memories and conclusions that Ford took. Excellent. The government shouldn’t be bothering them any longer.

Ford just nods, suddenly too tired to speak, and watches as the two agents bundle into a large black vehicle marked with an eagle-and-magnifying-glass insignia. He feels himself sway as the vehicle trundles away, but forces himself to stand upright. The government agents can’t be allowed to sense weakness from him, and, selfishly, he doesn’t want Stan to see how exhausted pulling this little stunt has left him. 

“Whoa! Grunkle Ford, that was amazing!” a voice pipes up from behind him, and Ford turns, carefully, to see Mabel sprinting across the lawn towards him. Dipper follows a little more cautiously in her wake. Seeing Mabel awake and unharmed seems to have worn the sharp edges off of Dipper’s suspicion, but he’s still wary as he approaches Ford, watching him with distrust as Mabel skids to a halt beside him, and maintaining a safe distance. Unlike Mabel, who practically slams into Ford’s side, sticking out her tongue at the retreating government guys.

“How did you do that?” Dipper asks, and Stan, coming up behind him, echoes the question.

“Yeah, I’d really like to know the answer to that one too, poindexter.” The question itself is innocuous, but Stan’s intent is clearly hostile. He still doesn’t quite trust that Ford is still Ford, though - oh, how insulting, he thinks that no alien brainworm could be this much of a jerk.

“It’s a symbiotic lifeform,” Ford explains, briefly, gesturing to his fronds. “ _Not_  a parasite, Stanley. Feeds on brainwaves. It means I can read - and manipulate - the thoughts and memories of anything with a brain.” He frowns. “That made the Jellyfish Dimension a little more difficult to navigate through than I expected, I’ll admit.”

Dipper cocks his head to one side, peering at the waving movement of Ford’s fronds, his curiosity warring with his distrust. Mabel, on the other hand, has thrown caution to the wind if she ever had it. “Ooh, can I touch it?”

“I’d...rather you didn’t,” Ford says, taking in the glare Stan’s fixed on him. 

“Yeah. C’mon, you two gremlins, let’s head back inside. Think we left Soos passed out in the basement,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on Ford. Ford thinks that he wouldn’t even need to be able to read Stan’s mind to know what Stan’s thinking.

_You stay the hell away from these kids. I don’t want you hurting them again/don’t want your sci-fi weirdness rubbing off on them/don’t want you -_

“Um, uh, Mr. Author?” Dipper asks. “Your nose is bleeding.”

Ford reaches up, swipes a hand under his nose. “So it is. Thank you, m’boy.”

Stan’s jaw shifts, like he’s biting his tongue. “Move it or lose it, kid. My brother can take care of himself.” He shoots one last, pointed glare in Ford’s direction, and then turns and starts to usher the kids towards the house.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got asked "how would the whole ending of Weirdmageddon go down?". I don't know about the _whole_ ending, but I do have this.

Ford comes to.

He doesn’t open his eyes, not right away. He’s lying on something warm and unpleasantly fleshy, there’s a faint smell of something bitter burning and the occasional distant shriek, and his head is full of static.

Ford doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to have to face what Bill has done to this world. But every time he tries to scan the room, the static in his head only grows worse, rising to a sharp mosquito whine that razors through his thoughts and makes him wince.

“WELL WELL WELL! LOOK WHO DECIDED TO JOIN US!”

Ford grinds his back teeth together, but it’s too late. Bill Cipher knows he’s awake. There’s no use in pretending anymore.

He opens his eyes and pushes himself up, and immediately discovers why the surface he’s been lying on is so unpleasantly fleshy. It’s because it’s flesh. Living, very humanlike flesh. In the shape of a sofa. 

An eye blinks open in the cushion where his head had just been, rolling to meet Ford’s horrified stare. Ford doesn’t manage to bite back the yelp as he jerks upright and stumbles off the couch. 

Bill’s laughter is loud and cackling and grates across Ford’s ears like a saw. Ford gives himself the briefest of shakes, rallying his wits and squaring his shoulders as he turns to face Bill. He may have already made a fool of himself, but that’s no reason to allow Bill to see that he’s gotten under Ford’s skin. Whatever torture he has in mind, so long as he doesn’t get the reaction he seeks out of Ford, he’ll grow bored of it eventually.

Ford just has to hope that ‘eventually’ comes sooner rather than later.

Bill swoops in to settle on the sofa next to where Ford is standing, his single eye staring, heavy-lidded, over his martini glass at Ford, and the static filling Ford’s head grows louder and shriller. So that’s one mystery solved. Ford considers, briefly, pulling up the collar of his coat to cover his fronds and maybe keep Bill’s interference out of his head, but decides against it. Better not to show any weakness in front of Bill.

“What do you want, Cipher?” Ford demands, his voice slipping into a growl near the end of the sentence. Bill just blinks, once, slowly, lazily. Mockingly? Of course. This _is_  Bill Cipher, after all. “Where are we? What is this?”

“OH, FORDSY, I’M HURT! DO I HAVE TO _WANT_  SOMETHING FROM YOU TO MAKE SOME TIME TO HANG OUT WITH MY _BEST FRIEND_?” The words land like a crossbow bolt. Ford can’t hide the flinch. Bill’s stare doesn’t waver. 

“You were never my friend,” Ford grinds out. “You got your apocalypse, Bill. What more could you possibly want from me?”

Bill finally breaks eye contact with Ford, looking into his martini glass as he swirls it gently back and forth. “OH, NOTHING MUCH! JUST ONE LITTLE EQUATION! YOU WON’T EVEN MISS IT!”

There’s something wrong here. What Bill asks for is never what Bill really wants. Despite the shriek and buzz of static, Ford takes another step towards Bill. “And what’s the catch?”

Bill blinks, in a parody of innocence. “CATCH? WHY, SIXER! IT’S LIKE YOU DON’T EVEN TRUST ME!”

“I don’t,” Ford says, proud of how level his voice stays. “I’m not giving you anything, Bill. You destroyed my universe! You’ll destroy every universe! I’ve devoted myself to _stopping_  you. What makes you think that I’d ever give you anything, ever again?”

Bill doesn’t say anything. The corners of his single eye just turn, very slowly, up into a smile.

Ford takes a step back as Bill starts to rise, up off the couch, his glow flashing brighter and brighter with his growing laughter. Ford tries to back away further, but finds himself pulled up short, by glowing blue chains locked firmly around his wrists, his ankles - and his neck. He tugs at the restraints, trying to free himself, but only succeeds in crushing one of his fronds against the back of his neck. He nearly drops to his knees, eyes watering with the pain.

Bill’s laughter abruptly cuts off, and Ford finds himself staring up into one enormous eye. Bill hovers above him, huge and distorted and all too painfully real. His single eye is bright with maniacal glee.

“BECAUSE,” he booms, in a voice so deep it sets Ford’s joints rattling against each other and makes the teeth buzz in the back of his mouth, “YOU DON’T HAVE A CHOICE.”

For an instant, it’s like Bill’s body goes grey and hard - almost like stone - and a glowing yellow outline of Bill phases through it, reaching out for Ford. The static in Ford’s head _shrieks_ , a piercing crescendo that whites out his vision for a split second. And then there’s a deep throbbing pain in the base of his skull the likes of which he hasn’t felt since he bonded with the symbiote all those years ago, and Bill is drawing back, shrinking in size even as he goes molten red with fury. 

“ _WHAT_!?” Bill thunders, in a voice that makes Ford’s ears ring. And even though he knows he shouldn’t provoke Bill, that the best way out of this is through, Ford can’t help but grin. 

“You can’t get into my head anymore, Cipher,” he says, giving his fronds a flare for effect. “Not unless I invite you in, and - I may have been dumb enough to fall for your tricks once, but that won’t happen a second time.”

For a moment, Bill is so incandescently angry that Ford can feel the heat pouring off of his triangular face, can see the dark red ( _bloody_ , his mind traitorously supplies) walls of his luxurious prison wavering through the heat haze rising off of Bill. 

Then Bill composes himself, running a hand over his topmost point like he’s running a hand through his hair, rolling his eye away from Ford as he cools back down to a glowing yellow. 

“WELL,” Bill says, and Ford doesn’t like the look he gives the portrait of himself bedecked in furs and jewels and a golden crown, one foot planted triumphantly on the globe, that hangs over the fireplace. “WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL, _WELL_. LOOKS LIKE _SOMEBODY’S_  BEEN MEDDLING AGAIN!”

He spins back to face Ford just as Ford takes one cautious step backwards, and Ford freezes. Bill doesn’t have much of a face to speak of, but Ford still doesn’t like the look on it.

“YOUR FRIENDS ARE AWFUL SMART, FORDSY!” Bill says, and he’s positively beaming with malicious glee. Ford tries to swallow the lump that rises in his throat, but it’s no use. Bill has an idea, and Ford knows, already, that he’s not going to like it. “GIVING YOU SOMETHING THAT COULD KEEP ME OUT OF YOUR HEAD! BUT, SEE, THEY FORGOT SOMETHING IMPORTANT!”

Bill darts forward, faster than Ford can really see. One moment he’s hovering over the couch, and the next, his pupil is pressed nearly against Ford’s nose. The entirety of Ford’s vision is filled with white, laced with fine veins. The static in his head is grating, whining, overpowering any thought he might have had of how to trick Bill, how to get out of this situation, how to protect what remains of his world. There’s nothing but static, and pain, and the sinking dread in the pit of his stomach.

“MAYBE I CAN’T TOUCH YOUR MIND,” Bill says, cheerfully. “BUT NOW THAT I’VE GOT A PHYSICAL FORM AND COMPLETE DOMINATION OVER YOUR WORLD?"

He snaps his fingers.

The static filling Ford’s head...vanishes. 

Ford has just enough time to realise what that means. 

He looks up in horror, just as Bill points a finger and fires a bolt of blue light. The symbiote, hovering in midair beside him, is blasted into pieces when the light hits it. Bill raises his finger and thumb to his eye, which morphs into a mouth, and he blows on his finger like he’s blowing smoke away from the barrel of a gun.

For the first time in almost twenty years, it’s dreadfully silent in Ford’s head.

Bill grins with that nightmare of a mouth, before it shifts back into an eye. “JUST LIKE OLD TIMES, HUH, FORDSY?” he says.

This time, when he slips out of his physical form and into Ford’s mind, there’s nothing to stop him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ford?”

Stan’s irritated. Bordering on furious? Strange. Ford casts his mind back, tries to think of anything he might have done to inspire such anger, but nothing comes to mind. He’s stayed in the basement, dismantling the portal and containing the rift. He’s kept away from the children. He’s done nothing to provoke Stanley’s wrath. 

“Ford? Dammit, are you down here?”

There’s a curious bitter edge to Stan’s anger, a curdling swirl of worry that swells with every second Ford doesn’t answer. That’s strange. What could Stanley have to be worried about?

“Ford, you better not have started up that damn portal and gone back through, or I swear I’m gonna hunt you down and bring you back just so I can punch you right in your smug face!”

Ah. Now that, Ford can understand, though Stan’s anger is still largely irrational. Why would he be concerned about Ford spending his time in the basement when that was what he’d practically told Ford to do? If anything, Stanley should be pleased. Grateful. 

“Come on, you big dumb genius, you gotta eat sometime.” Stan’s voice grows softer, his worry growing stronger the longer Ford doesn’t respond. “Ford?”

Ford tries to remember the last time he’d eaten. It wasn’t that long ago, surely? He’s running low on nutrient pills, but he hadn’t run out yet. That can’t be the reason why he feels so heavy, so weak, so...strange...

Oh. Well, that makes sense.

“Stan,” he croaks, and swallows hard, his throat rasping. “Stan?”

There’s a crash and a metallic clatter from the control room. Ford hopes that Stan hasn’t ruined anything irreplaceable. 

Ford blinks, and then Stan is kneeling in front of him, putting himself down at eye level with Ford. Ford tries to remember when he’d sat down on the floor, and can’t. At least he’d had the foresight to lean himself against a wall.

“Ford?” Stan’s asking, and he’s practically  _alight_ , great spikes of fear and little prickles of irritation and self-blame and fury, at Ford, at himself, at the symbiote - “What’s going on? What’s wrong with you?”

Ford blinks again, tries to gather his scattered thoughts. “I...miscalculated.”

“No  _shit_ , you miscalculated! What’d you do to yourself, you big - you stupid - you -” Stan gives up, throwing his hands up. His thoughts are like a lighthouse beam. Ford can practically feel himself leaning in towards them.

Wait. He  _is_  leaning in towards them, his fronds straining in Stan’s direction. Stan’s giving him a very concerned look. 

“Symbiote,” Ford manages. Yes, that’s a coherent English word. Well done, Ford. He gives himself a mental pat on the back. “Feeds on...brainwaves.”

Stan sucks in a breath. Strangely enough, his fear practically melts an instant after it spikes, burned away by blind fury. 

“ _Not_  eatin’...my brain,” Ford interrupts, before Stan can do or say something stupid. 

“Oh yeah? Then what the hell  _is_  it doing?”

Ford shuts his eyes, breathes. He can feel himself slowly pulling back together, with Stan here, but it’s still not nearly enough. 

“Thought it could subsist...on my brainwaves alone,” he says, slowly, hoping furiously that Stan doesn’t interrupt. He’s in no state to push anyone to do anything, and if Stan doesn’t listen and takes this the wrong way - “But I...still need...to eat.”

“So, what? You forgot you had to take care of yourself? Hate ta break it to ya, Sixer, but you can’t blame  _that_  one on the symbiote -”

“We both...need outside sustenance, Stanley,” Ford snaps. It’s a bad idea, takes too much out of him. He flops back against the wall.

Stan’s mind is whirling, but Ford can’t focus enough to process the jumble of thoughts and feelings bombarding him. He shuts his eyes again, and just lets the flood of thought wash over him.

“Right,” Stan says, finally, and pushes himself to his feet. Ford winces in sympathy at the random body aches that assault his twin. 

And then Stan walks away. Taking his brainwaves with him.

It’s so quiet in the basement. 

Ford isn’t sure how much time passes. He considers getting up, making his way up to the main floor and society and  _people_ , but just as quickly discards the idea. Even if Stanley weren’t hellbent on keeping Ford away from the children, Ford isn’t sure he’d even make it as far as the elevator. His legs are water, his arms lead. All he wants to do is sleep.

When Stan returns, it’s with a clatter and a clamour, stomping through the basement like a parade of elephants. Ford screws his eyes shut, but Stan just plops himself down beside Ford on the floor, his shoulder pressed against Ford’s. 

“Okay,” he mutters, and there’s a flutter of pages, and then Ford’s head is full of equations. 

Ford manages to pry his eyes open, glances over to see - Stan, sitting with his back against the wall, and what looks like one of Ford’s old theoretical physics textbooks open in his lap, his lips moving silently as he works through a series of proofs. Ford can feel the moment that comprehension clicks, a little burst of bright energy that, for just a moment, makes him feel like he’s just downed several shots of espresso. 

“Stan?” Ford asks, and Stan glances up from the page, his eyes narrowing.

“What? I hadda learn my way around this stuff to get your stupid portal up and working.”

“I - I didn’t realise -”

Stan grunts, but there’s a little ember of pride that glows in the depths of his thoughts as he turns back to the book. “Yeah, big surprise there. Just sit back, smart guy, and let’s get some, uh, brainwaves in you.” He darts a glance over at Ford, a glance he doesn’t think Ford sees, a little worried and a little fond. 

Ford tips his head back against the wall, pretending he didn’t see, and lets himself soak in the deluge of Stan's thoughts.

...

It’s quiet, being alone in his own head.

After nearly twenty years, Ford isn’t used to it. Isn’t good at it, anymore. That is, if he ever was. 

It’s just too quiet. He keeps expecting - something. Something other than the echoes of his own thoughts, rattling around the inside of his skull.

_(something like cruel, nasal laughter)_

The basement is quiet and isolated enough on its own that it makes the silence and emptiness in Ford’s head seem almost normal. And, of course, he no longer has to concern himself with getting enough social interaction to keep the symbiote fat and happy. He no longer has to concern himself with any of the symbiote’s needs or wants.

_(all he has to do now is pick through the wreckage of his mind, his self, and try to sort out what actually belongs to him)_

“Ford?”

Ford’s hands involuntary tighten on the edge of the desk, and he takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly before he turns to face Stanley. Stan’s expression is unreadable, but that means nothing. Most people’s expressions are largely unreadable, now. Ford’s trying to relearn what they all mean without the certain knowledge of the emotions behind them. 

He does better some days than others.

Today, it seems, is not one of the better days. Stan might be angry at him, or that might be pity. Ford decides it’s most likely too risky to try to assume. 

“Did you need something?” he asks, and Stan’s face shifts. Anger, then. Very well. Ford can deal with anger. 

“Were you planning on just moping around down here for the rest of the summer?” Stan demands, jabbing a finger into Ford’s chest. “The kids are going home tomorrow, and you’re not even going to come up and say goodbye?”

Ford looks down at Stan’s finger. It’s easier than meeting his eyes. 

“So now I assume you consider it safe for the children to interact with me?” he says, as coldly as he can manage. Stan rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, poindexter, I thought we got over this.”

“It was  _part_  of me, Stanley. For the last two decades! I beg your pardon if I haven’t just ‘gotten over this’!”

“That’s not -” Stan presses a hand to his forehead, huffing out a breath. “Look. Just come upstairs, okay? We’ll talk -”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk.”

Stan sucks in a breath, turns to look a little to his left and off into the middle distance. In the past, when he’s done this, he’s been counting slowly to ten in his head. Ford has no reason to believe he isn’t doing so now. 

“Maybe I don’t care what you  _want_ ,” Stan says, finally. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like what you  _want_  is to be left down here until you rot -”

“Maybe I do!”

Ford instantly regrets the outburst. He draws in a breath of his own, turning his back on Stan to avoid facing him. “I’ve braced the seams between the lower walls and the foundation, they should hold -”

“Ford,” Stan says, and that soft voice means  _pity_ , and Ford shrugs off the hand Stan rests carefully on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing to  _talk_  about, Stanley. You saved the world.” It takes a great deal of effort, but Ford manages to keep his voice steady as he adds, “You saved me. I owe you -”

“Did I?”

Ford looks up from his desk, but doesn’t turn around. He can feel his knuckles going white where he grips the edge of the desk, but he can’t seem to unclench his fingers from it.

“Ford, I don’t know what else I can do for you,” Stan says, and maybe that overripe-fruit too-easily-bruised softness in his voice isn’t  _pity_. Maybe it’s  _hurt_. Maybe it would be easier to tell if Ford could see his face. 

Ford doesn’t turn around.

“You can leave me alone,” he says, finally. 

“Dammit, Ford,  _look_  at me!” Stan shouts, slamming a hand against one of the arrays of computer towers that surround Ford’s desk. Ford flinches at the sudden noise. He wouldn’t have flinched if he’d known Stan’s mental state, if he’d known what Stan was about to do. He wouldn’t have shown Stan this moment of weakness.  _Useless_. “I taught myself  _quantum physics_  to get you back, okay? I punched a nightmare from another dimension right in the face! When - when’s it gonna be enough for you?”

It’s the crack in Stan’s voice that finally gets Ford to turn. Stan’s scowling, but his shoulders are shaking. Unreadable. 

“I - this has nothing to do with you,” Ford says, and Stan hits the side of the computer tower again, hard, with the side of his fist. It makes an ungodly noise, and a few of the lights blink off. Ford hopes Stan hasn’t damaged anything too irreplaceable. 

“Nothing to  _do_  with -”

“It’s me,” Ford interrupts, shortly, before Stan can explode any further. “Everything that’s happened - the portal, Fiddleford, the rift, Weirdmageddon - it’s all because of me.” It takes conscious effort to draw in a breath. The very air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. “It was all because I couldn’t bear to be alone. I understand that now.”

Stan shakes his head. If Ford had to put a name to his expression now, he’d pick ‘disbelief’. 

“No, listen,” Ford says, before Stan can tear off on some furious tangent that has nothing to do with the problem at hand. “I summoned Bill because I found my research at a standstill, yes, but that wasn’t why I let him share my body and mind. And I called on Fiddleford for engineering assistance, but that wasn’t why I asked him to move into the Shack with me. I wanted to protect my mind and my dimension from Bill, but...” 

He reaches up, tugs at the collar of his turtleneck. It can be as restrictive as it is comforting, and right now, it seems to be the former. “It was my fatal flaw. I spent the last thirty years chasing something, some imagined missing other half of myself, when I should have just - I should have known better. I should have learned.”

Stan’s voice is very soft, but very dangerous. “Shoulda learned what?”

Ford draws in a deep breath. “How to be alone.” He clasps his hands behind his back, forces himself to raise his chin, square his shoulders, feign confidence even though it feels as though he’s crumbling. “That I was meant to be alone.”

“Horseshit.”

Ford blinks. That’s not the response he’d expected. “I beg your pardon?”

Stan rests his fist against the computer tower, clenches and unclenches his fingers. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Ford’s. “I said, that’s a steaming load of horseshit, and I think you know it.”

“Stanley, don’t be ridiculous -”

“ _I’m_  not the one bein’ ridiculous here, Sixer.”

Ford glares. Stan matches his glare eye for eye.

In the end, it’s Stan who breaks first. His eyes drop towards his shoes, and when he looks back up, the intensity of his glare has softened, the anger muted. Ford doesn’t trust his judgement when it comes to faces, and this one is no different. It makes him uneasy. Can someone be angry with you and still care about you?

“You’ve never been alone,” Stan says. Ford can almost hear the  _you idiot_  tacked onto the end. “Not since before we were born. What made you think you shoulda been any good at it?”

“Well, the world ending when I wasn’t, for one thing,” Ford cracks, and Stan’s lips press together. Ford thinks he’s trying to hold back a laugh. Ford hopes he’s trying to hold back a laugh.

Stan huffs out a breath, at last, and Ford thinks he sees a trace of a smile in his expression.

“Come upstairs,” Stan says. “It sounds like what  _you_  need is a super-deluxe hot chocolate sundae with extra sprinkles. And you’re in luck, ‘cause I know just the girl who’d be delighted to make it for you.”

Ford considers refusing, for a moment. Considers the possibility of a ( _very short_ ) future of living down here, away from the sun, on nutrient pills and recycled water. 

Considers Mabel’s idea of hot chocolate.

“All right,” he says, at last. “I’ll come up. Just to say goodbye to the children, you understand.”

“Oh, sure,” Stan says. “Sure. You want a maraschino cherry on that sundae?”

Ford considers, for a moment.

“Yes,” he says, at last. “I think I do.”


	5. Chapter 5

The first warning anyone has of the intruder is when it steps into the middle of the war room.

Instantly, everyone’s on their feet, weapons drawn. Anyone who can get through the multiple levels of hologram diversions and security failsafes without triggering a single alarm is a big enough threat that a few laser knives and percussion guns aren’t going to do much, but if there’s one thing that every soul in the resistance movement shares, it’s a complete unwillingness to go down without a fight. 

The intruder stops, in the doorway, and stands still for a moment. Jhen notices with the clarity that comes with pure, undiluted panic that it’s small, under six feet, with no obvious spines or claws under the hooded cloak it’s wrapped in. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything - there are plenty of vicious weapons that can be easily hidden on someone’s person, especially under something like a cloak - but somehow she’d expected one of Bill Cipher’s assassins to look...scarier. 

The intruder raises two arms, slowly, the cloak falling aside, and Jhen catches herself lowering her blaster. She whips it back up again, training the humanoid figure of the intruder (only  _four_  limbs? Really?) in its sights, but it’s strange. The sense of danger, the heart-pounding terror when she’d first noticed the intruder, is fading fast, replaced by a sense of...familiarity?

The intruder grasps the hood of its cloak, and slowly, carefully, lowers it. The face it reveals is unfamiliar - a pale pink-orange, with a fluff of something brownish on top and two glass squares sitting in front of what Jhen assumes must be the eyes - but it isn’t the face that catches Jhen’s eye.

No, what Jhen notices first are the gently-wafting pink frills on either side of that unfamiliar face. 

She isn’t the only one. Across the table, Zarek shoots her a warning look. “We don’t know that that’s -” he starts, but Jhen ignores him, holstering her blaster and loping across the floor towards her friend.

The host startles backwards at Jhen’s rapid approach, but she gets no fear from his response, only a natural apprehension at something so much bigger than him moving towards him at high speeds. “Rahn! You made it back!”

Rahn lets out a squeaking noise when Jhen scoops his new host up into a six-armed hug, but it quickly turns into a laugh. He brushes his shoulders off when she plants him back on his feet so she can stare, accustom herself to the sight of his new host. “You’re so  _tiny_.”

“Maybe it’s you who’s huge,” Rahn teases back, and Jhen barks out a laugh. 

“You haven’t changed one bit,” she says, reaching out to tap that funny protuberance in the middle of his new face with one fingertip.

The golden pulse of joy and relief that Jhen’s been getting from her friend suddenly sours. He reaches up with one hand, adjusting the glass plates in front of his face, an automatic nervous gesture that seems familiar and natural to him and yet, one that Jhen doesn’t recognise.

“Unfortunately, you’re wrong on that count,” Rahn says, and then holds out one of those absurd, tiny arms. Jhen has her blaster half-drawn before she realises it’s not holding a weapon. He’s just extended a hand to her with nothing in it. She blinks at it. “It’s...very nice to meet you...again? My name is Ford. Stanford Pines.”

...

Rahn - or "Ford", he's very patient about it but it's impossible to miss how it upsets him if someone uses his old name - has some issues adjusting for size and general body shape ( _no_  hard carapace? or venomous fangs? or prehensile tail? Jhen is a little surprised anything like "Ford" managed to survive long enough in the wild to evolve sentience). Otherwise, though, he slots right back into the group as though Rahn had never left.

A few of the more...physical jokes have to be cut from everyone's repertoire, of course, but apart from that, it's the same sense of humour behind that squishy pink exterior. He's got a few new dietary restrictions (although "Ford"'s stomach is surprisingly resilient for something that's otherwise so vulnerable, and it quickly becomes one of his favourite jokes to see if he can eat something everyone else considers inedible, which leads to no fewer than six medbay visits before Alta tells him to knock it off), but still goes back for seconds of most of his favourite foods. And, perhaps most importantly (to Zarek, at least), he remembers everything about their efforts so far to stop Bill Cipher, and is not only willing but able and determined to pick up where Rahn left off. 

The quantum destabiliser slowly starts taking shape again, under "Ford"'s guidance. Even though Zarek won't let anyone abandon the contingency plans they'd put into place when they'd thought they'd lost Rahn for good, for the first time since she'd seen her friend go down in a burst of blue flame, Jhen feels like they might actually have a chance.

...

Jhen finds R-  _Ford_  (she’s getting used to the name, but it still feels strange to call her old friend something new) up on the observation dock, leaning his elbows against the railing and looking down at something in his hands, oblivious to the magnificent starfield visible through the clear dome. She’s still learning human ‘facial expressions’, but she knows she hasn’t read this one wrong.

Jhen notices the fronds draped against the sides of Ford’s neck don’t perk up at her approach. He must really be lost in thought. She makes sure to clear her throat as she walks up behind him. “I thought you might be hungry. Stuffed bonnok leaf?”

Ford jumps at the sound of Jhen’s voice, nearly dropping the thing in his hands over the railing. There’s a heartstopping moment where he scrambles for it, and Jhen has to grab him by the belt to keep him from toppling over and falling the length of the station.

Finally, though, one of his funny many-appendaged hands closes around the little rectangle of worn paper, and Jhen hauls him back over the railing. She only catches a glimpse of the paper before Ford stuffs it hurriedly back into his pocket. 

“Thank you,” he says, a little breathlessly, straightening up and adjusting his ‘glasses’. “I - yes. I was hungry.” He takes the stuffed bonnok leaf that Jhen offers, leaning back against the railing before he peels back the foil and takes a bite. His gaze turns skyward, and he munches thoughtfully through the stuffing, fronds waving agitatedly.

“What’s the matter?” Jhen asks, and Ford freezes, both face and fronds, before relaxing against the railing with a sigh.

“You’re getting very good at parsing human emotions,” he says, ruefully.

Jhen ‘grins’, one of those ‘facial expressions’ that she’s picked up from him, curling back her lips to reveal all her teeth. “You’ve never been able to hide how you’re feeling from me. Remember the time that -”

The feeling that bubbles off of Ford is like a blast of winter air. Jhen stops mid-sentence.

“I remember,” Ford says sharply. “But that wasn’t me.”

“What?” Jhen asks. Even as the word comes out of her mouth, she knows she’s made a mistake.

“You’re remembering Rahn,” Ford says, looking down at his bonnok leaf. He’s drawn back the icy anger, but now his thoughts and his emotions are all locked down, carefully controlling what he projects. Jhen can’t get a read on him at all. “I remember him too, but - he’s gone, Jhen.” The way he struggles to form the sounds of her name with his flat face, more than anything else, drives the truth like a frozen nail into her heart. “This isn’t like a molt, isn’t just a matter of switching bodies like shedding an old skin. He’s gone.”

It's said with a sort of heavy finality, and the way that Ford turns back to stargazing tells Jhen quite clearly that the conversation is over. She leans back against the railing herself, unwrapping her own bonnok leaf and downing it in two bites.

"Is that why you're upset?" she ventures, once she's crumpled the foil wrapper from her bonnok leaf into a ball and eaten that too. "Because you miss being Rahn? Or -"

"Because I miss being  _Ford_ ," Jhen's friend says, the words clipped and angry. He scrubs a hand through the funny tuft of 'hair' that tops off his head, letting out a sigh, and his shoulders slump. "I understand that, for you, it feels like your friend came back from the dead. And I don't mean to single you out, it's not you, it's everyone. But - you all remember Rahn, and I do too, but none of you know anything about me as Ford. And no one has cared to find out."

Jhen carefully doesn't tell him that she doesn't understand what he means. He'll be getting it loud and clear from her thoughts, he doesn't need her to be rude enough to repeat it out loud like she doesn't know how it will make him feel to hear it. Rahn had always hated -

"You can't keep assuming things about me based on what you knew about Rahn," Ford interrupts, half-turning to meet Jhen's eyes. 

"But they're always right," Jhen argues, before she can stop herself, and Ford pinches the bridge of his 'nose' between two of the six (six! who even needs that many fingers? Jhen gets along just fine with half that number) appendages on one of his hands.

"They're always right because I'm remembering -" He stops, takes a deep breath in, and lowers his hand from his face. "Today, until about twenty minutes ago, I was convinced that I was hatched from a nursery on Theta-144."

"But you  _were_  -" Jhen starts, and Ford throws his arms in the air, bringing his hands down to tug at his hair.

"No!  _Rahn_  was!" He stares at her, a little wild, and when he speaks Jhen gets the feeling that he's repeating the words as much for his own benefit as for hers. "Stanford Pines was born in Glass Shard Beach in New Jersey on Earth in nineteen...nineteen fifty-something, not  _hatched_!"

Jhen feels like she ought to say something, but she's not sure what.

Ford shakes his head, letting his arms and his fronds droop. "Never mind. I'm not certain it even matters." He turns around, to lean out over the railing again, his head tilted up to look at the stars. "And it's not as though I'll ever see home again," he says, and Jhen knows he isn't talking to her. "Maybe it's better this way."

Most days, the observation deck buzzes softly with echoes of the activity taking place through all the levels of the station. Right now, though, it seems very, very silent.

Jhen clears her throat, uncomfortably.

"What's a New Jersey?" she asks.


End file.
